"The Interlopers" is a short story written by Saki (Hector Huge Munro) . I do not own the characters Ulrich von Gradwitz (ul-rick) and Georg Znaeym (z-na-im). This a sequel to "The Interlopers".
Read "The Interlopers" at http:/www(dot)eastoftheweb(dot)com/short-stories/UBooks/Inte(dot)shtml before you read "Closer Than Blood". This story will not make sense otherwise!
And for those who don't know, this story takes place in the Karpathian mountains in the Ukraine.
"Who are they?" asked Georg quickly, straining his eyes to see what the other would gladly not have seen.
"Wolves."
Georg Znaeym was not known as a craven man, but even he felt his blood run cold at that word.
He swallowed, trying to summon words to his dry lips. "Gradwitz, what is happening?" No reply but the rustling of the canopy above. "Ulrich von Gradwitz, answer me!" The hysterical chuckle that Ulrich produced was not what Georg had wanted to hear.
-CTB-
Ulrich stared in horror as the hunters approached, silent as shadows. There was no doubt that the wolves knew they were there; if not for the shouting, than the metallic tang of blood. Their eyes were like burning coals in the shifting moonlight, their parted jaws revealed a maw of razor sharp teeth. Ulrich knew that these teeth would soon break his own skin, tearing through both sinew and muscle and breaking bones.
He shuddered, blinking back the images that swamped his mind's eye. When he once again looked out into the clearing, the wolves were gone. Not gone, out of sight, circling their prey. Faintly, he could hear Znaeym ordering him to speak, attempt to reach his gun, anything that could help them survive.
"Speak neighbor! Can you reach your gun? I've a knife on my belt, can you reach that?" Georg's voice was on the borderline of panic
"They're gone." was the horse reply, Ulrich's throat tight with fear.
"What do you mean gone?" asked Georg, almost hysterical as he tried to see past the blood in his eyes. A tense silence settled over the two trapped men, both listening fearfully for a sound of the wolves' presence.
Ulrich lay frozen, paralyzed by a terror so fierce that it threatened to smother him. Every rustle of the woods, imagined or real, was another spark of adrenaline-induced panic. His eyes ceaselessly scanned the darkened trees, fruitlessly looking for a sign of the beasts.
A shifting shadow commanded his immediate attention, and his fearful eyes widened even further as he discerned the silhouette of a hulking timber wolf, its coat black in the night.
-CTB-
A strangled sob startled Georg from his morbid imaginings. He tried to speak, but managed barely a strangled whimper as he gaped like a beached fish. His crushed legs throbbed, and the blood congealed on his face went unheeded by the stricken man.
-CTB-
In a worse state, Ulrich shuddered spasmodically and his teeth chattered together so that the rattle of clicking bones drove his nerves to even steeper heights. Not once did his eyes move from the alpha before him.
It moved slowly, taking its time as it stalked closer to its prey. The cold air smelt strongly of blood and sweat and fear, yet the subtler scents of gunpowder, wine, and leather were discernable. The wolf crouched low, its dark eyes glinting with all the cunning of a natural predator about to kill.
Ulrich von Gradwitz tried to scream, but the air could not force its self past the ivory fangs locked in his throat.
As he felt the wolf's jaws close on his neck, Ulrich had a moment of clarity, in which he remembered his free arm. With all the strength of desperation, Ulrich bashed the black wolf with his wine flask. So surprised was the beast that, with a yelp, it released its death-hold and darted towards the cover of the trees. The pack leapt after their leader, straight into the waiting guns of Znaeym's men.
-CTB-
Beside a blazing hearth, an old man halted his tale, turning his gaze from the dancing flames to the snow falling thickly outside the darkened window.
"Grandpa?" He turned his eyes toward the eldest of his three grandchildren. 16-year-old Margaret sat on the worn couch with a heavy fur about her shoulders; the twins had long since fallen asleep on her lap. Across from her, on the large footstool, sat 17-year-old Lucien; his 8-year-old sister, Clara, asleep in the armchair behind him. He too looked eagerly to the old man resting by the fireside.
"Well?" asked Margaret, caught in the spell of a well-spun story. His silver beard hid the old man's smile.
"Well what?" he asked irritably, an amused sparkle to his crinkled grey eyes.
"What happened next?" asked Lucien, his blue eyes pleading.
"Next? The poachers freed both men and carried them to Gradwitz manor for medical attention. Georg's legs had been badly crushed, so he needed a cane to get about, and Ulrich's throat never did heal right. It was months before he could speak again, and even then it was painful for him." The old man chuckled before continuing. "It wasn't long before Georg knew Ulrich so well that he was speaking for the both of them." Lucien and Margaret exchanged humorous smiles with a few light chuckles, but the storyteller continued. "Because of a pointless feud, both men suffered greatly, but because they both suffered, they became the closest friends."
With all three smiling softly, the room fell into a comfortable silence; the children lost in thought as the old man dozed in the heat.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour, startling all from their revere. Margaret checked her sleeping brothers with a soft smile.
"They're the ones who begged to stay up, and they missed the story." Her grandfather chuckled warmly.
"They'll hear it another time, but for now they need to be put to bed." The old man let a knowing smile dance about his lips as Lucien helped Margaret carry the three youngsters to the nursery. On her return Margaret promptly excused herself, said goodnight to both her grandfather and Lucien, then went up to her room, leaving the men to themselves.
"Thank you for the story, sir." He was merely given a wave of dismissal.
"It's your heritage, Lucien. You've a right to know how the Znaeyms and the Gradwitz forged a friendship closer than blood. After all, you'll inherit that friendship one day." The raven-haired lad merely smiled and nodded.
"Thank you anyway, Mr. Znaeym. Goodnight." The young Gradwitz left to his room, leaving the old man with his thoughts.
"And what a friendship it was…" Against the mantle, a worn cane rested within easy reach.